La Humainatouille
by GyreGimble
Summary: Adding a bit of Disney magic to Ratatouille. "I was no longer Little Chef... I was Remy, the regular guy with an amazing cooking skill, and I was ready to be the best HUMAN chef there ever was."
1. When You Wish Upon a Star

**La Humain-atouille**

**By: GyreGimble**

**(Ratatouille is © Disney and Pixar.)**

**(A/N: I loved how Ratatouille wasn't a classic fairytale and didn't have any big bursts of Bibbity-bobbity-boo magic. But, I wondered, what if it **_**did**_**? Hence, this story. And yes, it's not a very original title. I know that.)**

A secret gets harder to keep, the bigger it gets.

And when you're the head chef of France's most popular bistro who just happens to be an animal, it's very, _very _hard to keep a secret.

We get people constantly asking to meet the chef who prepared their fantastic meal, and Linguini has to sit there, fumbling an apology.

"No, I-I-I'm sorry,_madam_e, but the head chef doesn't like to be seen; i-i-it's complicated?"

And the person would give a slight, "Oh." And leave. Sure we see them again, but never with the same bright looks on their faces.

The only customer who knows is Anton Ego, of course. He's kept it a tight-lipped secret, and the man is much too prideful to back down on a promise. He is actually quite friendly to me; if he comes for dinner; he will wait until everyone leaves and head into the kitchen, saying a few polite words to me about the meal, or occasionally the weather.

I can only nod or shake my head. He doesn't understand me. I'd love to talk to him, to get into a deep debate about cooking.

I'm tired of having to point and squeak to be able to get something. I'm tired of having to use my paws to climb up a _pot_. A pot! It takes forever to make even soup!

I'm tired of being called "Little Chef". Though the nickname was cute and appropriate at first, it annoys on occasion. My name is Remy! I want to scream at the red-haired man, REHM-EE!

Alright, I'll admit it.

Now that my life dream of being a chef has completed now comes the dream I know I'll never win.

I want to be a human.

It's impossible, I know.

(Well, that's what they said about the chef thing, but at least I wasn't changing my_species_, was I?)

It's just a small thought in the back of my head, whispering softly at night when I lay by the now-very-spacious-window-since-Linguini-and-Colette-moved-into-a-bigger-apartment. It'll suddenly pop up as I contemplate what really big _goal _I could do. It's no fun just planning the next _day's_ menu. I want to think about long-term dreams. And it'll suddenly say, _"You want to be a human." _In that deep voice I know too well.

"No, I don't." I say, faintly, and shut my eyes as if that would turn off my brain.

"_You're just saying that because you're afraid that it won't come true."_

"Because it won't. It's impossible."

And that's the end of those discussions.

It nagged me on and on, but only at night, I noticed. During the day, my mind was occupied with the culinary creations I was now famous for. (In the papers, I am called _Le Chef de Mystère _– an impressive sounding title, but so unfulfilling of the praise I crave) After a hard day's work, my mind too exhausted to hold back the ridiculous, wanders aimlessly. I would think of my family, sitting happily in their home in the basement of _La Ratatouille_, and what Emile and Dad were doing tonight. They were quite nocturnal, unlike I, who was slowly adjusting to Linguini's schedule.

I couldn't tell them.

Dad was, though impressed with my job, still a proud rat. He wouldn't want his son wishing he were a human. Emile, always the kindly sort, would probably listen, but end up confused. All he wanted was the simple things in life; some food and a warm home were all that was needed to please him. Wanting to be another species? That idea was in another dimension in his mind.

So, I kept it to myself, since no one else was there to talk to. I think that if I had said it to someone else – anyone, even if they were human – it wouldn't have been as bottled up as it ended up being. The nagging in the back of my head grew louder and louder, and I was admitting that I did want what it said, but it wouldn't stop! What did it want?

The night that it was screaming in my head, bouncing around my small skull and echoing, I shot up, threw my makeshift pillow of a cotton ball to the ground, and huffed. There was no way I was going to sleep like this.

I looked out at the Parisian sky, not even the perfect view would lessen the racket going on in my head.

Then, I saw it. A small, faint glimmer, a bit right from the Eiffel Tower's shadow. It trailed down from the heavens, dim but visible. A shooting star.

"_Make a wish."_ My head said, remembering one of human's odd traditions. Wouldn't hurt, would it?

I closed my eyes, but kept them focused on the star from my eyelids.

"_I wish I were a human."_

One, two, three.

I opened my eyes.

I was still a rat.

_Big surprise._

But… the voice was gone. No more screaming.

That was all it took?

Smiling a little, I went back into my bed, now regretting throwing the pillow down so far, but I knew I'd still get a good night's rest regardless.


	2. Human Again

**La Humain-atouille**

**By: GyreGimble**

**(Ratatouille is © Disney and Pixar)**

I've always been an early riser, even as a kid. It used to annoy Emile, who is more of an 'afternoon' person. He would throw a pillow at my face (the only time he's any sort of aggressive is when he's tired) and tell me to go back to bed. Anyway, this never changed after I moved out. I was always up way before Linguini (who strikes me as the kind of guy who would sleep until three if he didn't have an alarm clock. I'll have to test this theory.), and a bit before Colette. She told me to sleep in on Valentine's Day so she could make breakfast for "Al" at least once. I just smiled.

Anyway, so as per usual, I was up at least a good thirty minutes before the rest of the house. I blinked open my eyes, and realized I had fallen off the windowsill during the night. Nothing too out of the normal, I felt fine. I also felt very heavy, but contributed it to tiredness. I'd been up a bit later than usual, so I was a bit sluggish, right?

I stood up, yawning a little, and went over to the kitchen to start making some omelettes.

Wait.

When did it take a few steps to get across the hallway?

And since when was the stove at my waist?

I looked down at my feet.

Two oddly-shaped, pink _things _were where the feet used to be.

I then looked at my paws, and they were hands. Moving the now much longer fingers, I pinched the palm, and gasped at the slight pain. I was awake.

I then screamed. As loudly as my new, big, _human _lungs would.

I heard Colette from the bedroom, gasping and shouting at whoever would dare burst into her house hadn't met her friend _Monsieur_ Knife.

Panicking, I ran (well, scampered on my front paws – no, hands, which was awkward with my new, long legs.) into a small cupboard near my bed, and I locked myself in.

Peering through a small hole, I saw Colette's pale legs, a thin nightgown swirling around them, as she cursed in French.

"I know you're in here! Come out, coward!" She said, and I knew she was pointing a kitchen knife around dangerously.

"_Monsieur _Little Chef, have 'oo seen-"

She stopped short, seeing the kitchen table without the usual "little chef" there, making breakfast.

"Little Chef!" She said, looking around. The bed was empty and messy, and she went over to it.

"Eet's warm.." My sue-chef muttered, fiddling with the tissue-blanket "'e can't be too far."

I took in a breath, eyes wide with fright. What if she found me in here? What would she do? Would she believe me if I told her I was 'Little Chef'? Probably not…

I waited for her to get dressed and go out, and I could tell by her silence that she was shaken. Would she really go out looking for _me_…?

She went out the door, and I didn't hear her Moped. She wasn't going to work… She was really going to look for me. I almost laughed at this. Just three weeks ago, she would've left me for dead…

Knowing I was safe for a good hour before Linguini would trudge out of bed, I sat down to think, aware of the fact that no tail was there to balance me. What would I do? Could I unwish this?

Wait, why would I _want _to? I just got my dream come true! Just somehow convince them I'm their little chef, somehow, and I was set…

Wait, of course! _Ratatouille_! If I made my signature dish, they'd know it was me! I stood up, smiling at my cleverness, and turned on the light. I saw in the mirror on the wall, going up to it to look at my new face.

My hair was the same shade as my fur had been – a dark grey; it made me look a bit older than I assumed I was in human years. My nose and teeth were large by human standards, as I knew from observing humans' faces through my adventure, but I didn't see anything wrong with it. I looked a bit lower down and realized that I was… naked.

And for the first time in my life, it actually bothered me.

If my father was there and had somehow known my thoughts, I'm certain he would've hit me. Only humans wore clothes! They were unnecessary things for anyone else. But… I _was _a human now, right? So I would need clothes. Linguini was thin, but I was sure I could get into his size. I looked around the cupboard, and only saw coats, winter hats and old blankets. I was going to have to sneak into their room.

Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the cupboard, cautiously coming out of it and into the living room. The bedroom Linguini and Colette shared was at the other end of the room. I sprawled out onto the group, and crawled over to the door, pushing it open as quietly as I could. I was used to doorknobs by now, but with using two hands to crank it open. My palms were big, now, and it was awkward opening it, but I managed. I came in, seeing my friend still off in his dreams, snoring loudly. I smiled a little. The noise would cover any I made myself. I went to the closet, walking upright this time, and opened it. Egad, humans were obsessed with clothes, weren't they?

Grabbing the biggest shirt and pants I could find, I unfolded them, holding it out. Wait, how do you put them on…? Okay, Remy, you've seen Linguini do it a million times. I started trying to unbutton the shirt, and occasionally bit into the thing to try and open it. Finally, I figured it out and opened the shirt, slipping it on with just a bit of difficulty. As I fastened the buttons a bit, I noted that it was snug. For someone who had made fun of Anton Ego, Linguini was thin himself. Not as strangely vulture-like as Ego was, but more like, well, a bunch of spaghetti noodles. Snorting quietly at my comparison, I put on the pants as Linguini did every morning, and tripped in the process. My elbow hit a table, and I yelped slightly. A tingling sensation went through my arm, and I had to hold my breath to keep myself from making too much of a disturbance. The sensation finally went away, and I sighed in relief. Linguini made a slight hiccupping noise in his sleep, but besides that, paid no heed. I finished getting dressed and looked at myself in the mirror. Alright, I guess. Linguini wasn't known for his taste in clothes, but it didn't matter much at the moment. Out of curiosity, I went over to the sleeping man. I could tell already that even though I was now a human, he was still taller. My smile faded a bit. Hopefully, I wasn't abnormally short for a human; I wanted to fit in. Turning around, I exited the room and went to the door. Finally, my first day around Paris without making a whole street go into madness at the sight of me.

No longer was I 'Little Chef', nor was I '_Le Chef de Mystère_'.

I was Remy, the regular human with a fantastic cooking skill, ready to be the world's best _human _chef.


	3. The Age of Not Believing

**La Humain-atouille**

**By: GyreGimble**

**(A/N: I'd like to thank the people who reviewed! They really cheer me up, _merci_.)**

It was turning out to not be such a good day for Alfredo Linguini.

Let's start from the top. Number one: for once in his entire life, he'd woken up _before _the alarm. He could feel Colette near him on the bed, still breathing slowly. She was asleep. He laid there fora bit, wishing he'd fall back asleep so he wouldn't be tired later, but it never came. Colette would wake up if he moved even to look up at the clock, so he lied there for a few minutes, eyes closed lazily.

Then, through the entire house, a scream sailed through the walls.

Linguini's eyes popped open, and he heard Colette get up. As she left their room, no other noise was made except opening and shutting of doors. What had that been…? Was a window open, and they'd heard something from outside? He sat up in bed, unsure of what to do. If Colette were in trouble, Linguini knew that she'd either kick the man in a _very _uncomfortable place, or call out to Linguini for help if she really needed it. Since neither sound came, he settled down again to wait for the alarm, assuming it was something not in the apartment.

About five minutes later, he heard the door open. The right eye opened to see who it was. The figure by the closet wasn't Colette. It was a man, and he was shirtless. Wait, no, he… he was naked. There was a naked man in his room, rummaging through his clothes. Linguini froze, unsure of what to do. If he got up, what could he do? The naked man finally finished getting dressed, and looked at Linguini with an odd look. Closing his eyes tightly, Linguini started snoring to give the illusion of sleep. This seemed to satisfy the strange man, who then left.

He heard the bedroom door close, and then the front door.

Linguini got out of bed, right as the alarm was going off, his eyes wide with confusion.

What was going on!?

The redhead paced the living room floor, his feet dragging on the carpet as he turned sharply.

"Oh-okay, so Colette's gone, and Little Chef's gone… But they usually wait for me to get up before leaving, and I didn't hear the Moped and… Why was there a naked guy in my room?! Am I just having a really freaky dream? OW! Okay, no, no, I'm not. Okay, uhm, well, maybe Colette decided to walk to work? …In the rain. Yeah. Sh-she, uhm.."

He muttered to himself, trying to find a logical explanation to it.

And the only thing that was coming to mind was that Colette was cheating on him with a guy who had grey hair and was currently wearing his clothes. And Little Chef had just… disappeared…

Something in the back of his mind noted that Little Chef and the man had the same color hair, but the rest of his mind said it was unimportant. Just a coincidence, of course. The guy was probably older, so had grey hair. It just so happened to be the shade of a Norwegian rat, and he also couldn't find Little Chef.

But, another part of his brain said, Little Chef often disappeared when he was going to visit his family.

And what did this have to do with Colette possibly cheating on him? Nothing.

Linguini felt an odd pit in his stomach, and he knew he was stressing a bit too much. Maybe he'd just imagined the guy… Well, that didn't explain how his shirt and pants had gone missing, but for right now he wanted to believe that Colette loved him.

Today just wasn't Linguini's day.


End file.
